Soon Enough
by MerylJane
Summary: Angela and Hodgins, post-"Aliens in a Spaceship." Ironically future-optimistic for a story set so far in the past.


**AN: Right. So I promise I get that this episode happened roughly six million years ago. But: I found this unfinished document on my computer and it spoke to me, my faith in Angela/Hodgins has been re-ignited since the most recent episode, I regret my apparent incapability to finish chapter stories (ahem, my silly little half-story, "999,999") in what even geologists would consider a timely manner, and, finally, I in no way trust myself to write an anywhere near adequate post-100th B&B fic (though I of course have been feverishly consuming nearly every one on this site throughout the course of this past week).**

**p.s. Is it just me or is TJ Thyne getting sexier and sexier as time goes on? Maybe Hodgins is just becoming a better dresser.**

**Warning: I'm a major cheese-head. I mean, uh, this story is, well, "romantic."**

**And I disclaim.**

**---------**

Angela was very aware of her sense of touch, particularly the impulses received from the nerve cells of her left hand. In fact, she considered that her brain might be interpreting only the sensations from this palm, firmly ignoring any other stimuli.

She felt these things: moisture, because he'd cried much more than he'd wanted to, even while laughing about his "crutch money" joke; and the prickly, almost_ soft_ stubble on his face, because he hadn't exactly_ shaved_ underground; most significantly (this was the part that consumed her entire central nervous system - and, hell, her entire_ being_), was the warmth. This was, she knew, indicative of the present blood flow under his soiled skin.

Her neurons rejoiced.

And when he leaned his face into her touch, for the first time in what had actually been a day but had felt like an epoch, she could breathe.

"We should go now," she suggested quietly, hand still caressing his cheek. "You should sleep."

"Okay," he said in a very soft, trusting voice, like a child's.

----------

When they reached her apartment, she didn't have the capacity to worry over awkwardness of sleeping arrangements; her brain was too busy processing the truth that he (along with Brennan) was _alive_. And he, for what it was worth, was_ hers_. (It turned out that was worth a lot more than she may have first guessed.)

It was clichéd, the concept of having to come close to losing someone in order to appreciate him truly, but Angela wasn't the type to care.

This was real.

That she knew.

----------

In the night, he did wake up from a nightmare, sweat pouring off his forehead and onto her flowered pillowcase. She hadn't been asleep anyway (_How_ could she sleep? How could she _possibly_ sleep?), and so she was all there when he awoke. (She'd freaked out the second she'd noticed him fidgeting restlessly and prayed he'd wake up – had to stop herself from rousing him - so she didn't have to watch him suffer. She knew he'd been right; he closed his eyes to Brennan's car, underground.)

When she made contact with his astounding irises, she instinctively reached out for him, placing a hand on his saturated head and stroking his dirty, slightly matted curls. He hadn't wanted to take a shower (she knew it was because of the smallness of the space, though he didn't state this openly); he'd rinsed his face in her sink with the door open, changed his clothes, and crawled (quite literally, with his leg being injured) into her bed.

When he opened his eyes, they'd darted around frantically for a moment before focusing on her face. She'd said nothing, not wanting to startle him further, but continued to stroke his hair. When his breathing became more even, she said, "Jack. You're alright."

"I know."

Then, "Toss me a pain pill, will you?" He pointed at the translucent orange bottle on her bedside table.

She moved to get a glass of water for him, but he stopped her, feebly grabbing her wrist. "Wait."

"Water," she said softly, trying to ease his anxiety, "You need water."

"No. I don't. Stay here," he pleaded gently. She nodded and lay back down. He kissed the center of her forehead. "I bought you perfume that costs three grand a quarter ounce. Brennan and I used it, though."

She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or insulted by his purchase, but chose for her only outward reaction to be a whispered, "Used it how?" She tried hard to accompany the inquiry with a smirk.

He took a deep breath through his nose. "Particulate identification."

"That's good," she said quickly, making another attempt to smile with humor but failing miserably because the mere thought of the two of them reduced to using anything it took just to increase their chances of survival made her want to cry.

"I wrote you a letter," he said with a broken coyness. "Down there."

"Yeah?" She was quiet and still fighting tears. She was sure she didn't have the strength for this conversation.

"I . . . I folded it up and . . ." He yawned and she considered the possibility that he hadn't been fully awake at all during this entire interaction. ". . . and I put it right here." He placed his hand on his chest over the apex of his heart, on an imagined pocket. (She realized that, if this letter really existed, it lay just on the other side of the room, in the breast pocket of his folded, dusty shirt.) "Do you want to know what it said?"

She wasn't sure what compelled her to do it, but it just felt right to reach out and cover his hand with hers. Their bodies were still at least a foot apart, but both her hands were in contact with parts of him. (She'd resumed stroking his hair.) "You don't have to talk, Jack," she assured him, maybe more for her own benefit.

He shifted their hands on top of his chest, so both of his now cradled hers. Consequently, she'd inched closer; this was how he wanted it.

"I know I don't," he told her. He smiled. He thought about kissing her lips, but settled for ghostily caressing her temple with his lips, a promise of kisses all over her skin to come.

He thought of saying "I love you," but settled for, "You'll find out soon enough."

He thought of how he wanted to spend his entire life letting her know -telling her, _showing_ her - exactly what he'd written in that letter. The thought brought on a rare mix of excitement and comfort.

Hodgins closed his eyes and saw only Angela.

She, too, slept.


End file.
